Principal Man of War

Man of War

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Man of War

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This book is a work of fiction.



man of war. Copyright © 2018 by Sean Parnell..

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions..




first edition

Cover design by Richard Aquan

Cover photographs © Vin Vuckovic/Shutterstock (background); © Oleg Zabielin/Alamy Stock Photo (figure)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Parnell, Sean, 1981- author.

Title: Man of War : an Eric Steele novel / Sean Parnell.

Description: First edition. | New York, NY : William Morrow, [2018] | Identifiers: LCCN 2017049082 (print) | LCCN 2017061742 (ebook) | ISBN 9780062668806 (ebook) | ISBN 0062668803 (ebook) | ISBN 9780062668783 (hardcover) | ISBN 0062668781 (hardcover)

Subjects: | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3616.A762 (ebook) | LCC PS3616.A762 B33 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

LC record available at

Digital Edition SEPTEMBER 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-266880-6

Print ISBN: 978-0-06-266878-3


To my Three Es



Title Page



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17
Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82


About the Author

Also by Sean Parnell

About the Publisher

Chapter 1


Khalid arrived at his commander’s house before first light. At fifteen, he was built like a Great Dane puppy, all legs and feet except for the wisp of hair growing around his upper lip. The facial hair marked him as a man, but it was the pistol in his waist that made him feel invincible.

Khalid was a jundi, what the men of the Algerian Liberation Front called a gun boy. Armed with Kalashnikovs, they were street thugs who took what they wanted. Khalid’s only loyalty was to Commander Cheb Massi.

Massi ran the Bir Mourad Raïs district, the strategic strip of land that ran from the plateau of western Algiers to the Hydra district where the westerners had their embassies. He also controlled the docks where Khalid traded hashish and opium for guns and RPGs. It was because of the docks that everyone called Massi the emir, and as long as Khalid worked for him, he was untouchable.

As he always did when summoned to the emir’s house, Khalid went straight to the fridge for a beer. The kitchen was dark, and he yanked at the handle. The seal gave way with a wet pop, and the harsh light hit him in the eyes, dilating his pupils. He was twisting the cap off the bottle when a voice said, in Arabic:

“A bit early.”

Damn. Khalid jumped, and the bottle slipped out of his hand and shattered on the tile floor. He stepped back, reaching for the pistol stuck in his waistband, glass crunching under his feet. A match flared at the table, and a pair of scarred hands appeared in the circle of yellow light. The man leaned in to touch the end of the cigarette against the flame, and Khalid froze.

His face was gaunt and skeletal, and suddenly Khalid had to pee. It happened every time he got nervous or scared.

“You pull that piece”—the man paused to drag smoke into his lungs—“and I will blow you out of your shoes.”

It was too dark for Khalid to make out if he had a gun, but if he did there was no doubt that the man would kill him right there. So he raised his hands, palms out like they did in the American movies, and prayed that Commander Massi was close by. He thanked Allah when the lights came on and his boss stomped into the kitchen.

“Khalid, why are you standing like that?”

Massi nodded to the man at the table.

“This is the boy I told you about.”

The man calmly brought his right hand up, his eyes freezing Khalid in place. They were black and emotionless, just like the Egyptian cobra that had bit his cousin, but instead of fangs the man was holding a large revolver centered on Khalid’s gut.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

Khalid nodded. There was no mistaking the face. It was the burned man. His voice cracked when he answered. “Yeeess . . . yes.”

“Cheb says you have the hadia, is that true?”

The gift. It was the name his mother had given his ability to find things. When he nodded again, the burned man put his thumb on the hammer and eased it forward.

Khalid hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until his head began to spin. His legs trembled beneath him, and he could hear his heart hammering like a drum in his chest. He would have killed me, he realized.

At that moment Khalid understood that he knew nothing about death. He had been strong before walking into the kitchen, and now he was weak, helpless to control the shaking that ran up his legs.

“Have a seat before you fall down,” Massi snapped.

Khalid walked to the table. He heard the refrigerator open behind him when he sat, and forced himself not to jump when the man pushed a photograph across the table.

“Can you find this man for me?”

Massi had to thump the fresh beer against his shoulder before Khalid realized it was there. He took it and poured half the bottle down his parched throat, stopping only when he ran out of air.

As a jundi, Khalid spent most of his time running errands for Massi and his lieutenants. He knew the city like the back of his hand, but the gift he couldn’t explain. Somehow he was able to find people even if they wanted to stay hidden.

The man in the picture was an Arab, light-skinned but not like the Berbers. He had soft features, short black hair, and a thin nose. Khalid focused on the eyes and the nose; they were the hardest to change. Finally, after memorizing the face, he nodded.


Massi took out an old flip phone and handed it to Khalid.

“If he finds him before noon, I will give you an extra hundred thousand dollars,” the burned man said to Massi. “My number is the only one on this phone. You call me as soon as you find him. If you tell anyone I will kill your father first. He is still working at the oil fields in Gassi Touil, correct?”

Khalid didn’t feel right again until he was riding through the bazaar. He wanted to stop and smoke some hashish, but then he remembered the burned man’s gun. He drove around for two hours before ending up back at the bazaar. This is where he is, he thought, so he drove back and forth until his stomach began to rumble.

He was so hungry that he almost didn’t notice the silver van creeping down the road.

Shit, police.

The cops in Algiers were dirty, and if they stopped him they would want money. Money he didn’t have. Khalid was about to scurry away, but then he got a good look at the driver of the van. He was white—a foreigner—and Khalid realized that he had seen him before.

“The American embassy,” he said aloud.

Something told him that the van was looking for the man in the picture. So instead of cutting through one of the alleys that led away from the bazaar, Khalid released the handbrake and aimed the motorbike at the vehicle. He happened to glance toward the sidewalk, and that was when he saw the man in the photo.

The target was walking toward him, head low and unaware of the van creeping up from behind. Khalid couldn’t believe his good fortune. He pulled the motorcycle to the curb and dug the phone from his pocket.

“That was quick.”

“He is at the bazaar. The Americans are here in a van.”

“What is he carrying?”

“Uh . . . he has a bag.”

“Are you sure they are Americans?”

“Yes . . .”

The van sped forward so fast that Khalid almost dropped the phone. It jumped onto the curb amid angry shouts from pedestrians. Three burly men jumped out.

Khalid relayed what was happening in real time. “Three men, they have beards and rifles.”

“Breul, don’t you fucking move!” one of the men yelled in English, pointing at the man Khalid had been sent to find.

“They are yelling at him. He is running.”

Behind him tires screeched and another car flashed around the corner. Khalid barely got out of the way, and almost dumped the bike in the street. The man in the picture tried to run, but one of the Americans pulled out a yellow pistol and fired.

The Arab ran into a woman carrying a bundle of oranges, a pair of wires trailing from his back. The fruit went flying and then there was a tick, tick, tick sound that sent the man to the ground. He dropped like a bag of stones and flopped around on the pavement like a fish in Khalid’s cousin’s net.

“I told you not to run,” one of the men said before kicking the Arab in the face. They grabbed his hands and forced them behind his back.

“We got him,” one of the Americans said into the radio.

“They are binding his hands and carrying him back to the van.”

“Follow them. I need to know where they are going.”

“Yes, of course.”

Khalid shoved the phone into his pocket and waited for the two vehicles to pass. He turned the bike around and hurried after them, his hunger forgotten. The only thing he remembered was the burned man’s eyes and the pistol leveled at his stomach.

He would not fail him.

Chapter 2


Four thousand miles to the east, Eric Steele turned into the alley, the headlights of the stolen Mercedes playing across the cinderblock wall. He cut the lights, and before stepping out of the car made sure the dome light was disengaged.

Steele was an Alpha—a clandestine operative assigned to a unit known simply as “the Program.” It traced its lineage to World War II and existed because there were enemies that the President of the United States couldn’t handle with diplomacy or all-out war. In these events the Commander in Chief needed a third option, and that was why Steele was in Beirut.

Eric gingerly reached back and touched the throbbing lump at the back of his skull. It felt like someone had embedded a golf ball beneath the skin and even the lightest of touches sent a shard of pain radiating along his jaw.

The blood staining his fingers looked black in the dark. “That sucker-punching bastard,” he muttered while wiping his hands on the leather upholstery. The center console rattled when it hinged open, and after futilely pawing around for a bottle of aspirin, Steele settled on the FN Five-seven instead.

Most of the time Steele carried a modified Colt 1911. The .45 was an old gun, and the only thing his father left at the house before he disappeared. It was Steele’s most cherished possession, but not the right weapon for what he had planned.

The FN, on the other hand, was designed in Belgium around the SS190 5.7×28mm round; hence the name. Its sole purpose was to punch through body armor, and it was the cartel favorite. Steele press-checked the pistol and after ensuring it was loaded, screwed a suppressor onto the threaded barrel. When it was snug, he pressed a wireless earpiece into his ear, stepped out of the vehicle, and eased the door shut behind him.

In the darkness the only sound came from the raindrops on the roof and the gentle swishing of traffic that drifted from the highway. Steele let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

“Radio check,” he said, stepping around the car and angling for the building to his right. At six foot two, he moved with a predatory grace that seemed impossible for a man of his build. Steele hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in years. His physique, like his light, measured step, had come from the mountains of Afghanistan, where he had hunted terrorists as a Green Beret.

“Took you long enough,” came the response.

The voice on the radio belonged to Demo, Steele’s handler. They had been together since Eric became an Alpha and it was a tight bond, forged by countless operations.

“Traffic,” Steele replied.

It was the understatement of the year. The ride over had been a white-knuckle nightmare. Rain in Beirut is like snow in Florida, and it didn’t matter if it was an inch or a foot—it made the locals drive like maniacs.

Steele paused at the door and tested the knob. It was locked. He had the picks ready in his shirt pocket and went to work. Sweat beaded up on his forehead—it was hot, and the rain had made it worse.

Lock picking was a perishable skill, one that Steele knew he had neglected. During phase two of the Program’s selection course it would have taken him thirty seconds. “Damn you, lock,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Take forever, mano,” Demo quipped.

Steele gritted his teeth and fought the urge to just kick the door in, but a second later the last tumbler clicked into place and he was able to turn the knob.

“I’m in.”

He cleared the house, fully aware that he could be walking into a trap. He took his time, slipping from room to room. The street side of the structure had a row of windows, and now and then a passing car cast its oblong shadow across the wall. Most of the buildings in Beirut had been built in a rush after the civil war ended in 1990. The fighting had been close and personal and the city had taken a beating. Steele had seen the same damage in Fallujah, and he knew that tanks and artillery had destroyed eighty percent of the structures in Beirut.

In the rush to rebuild, contractors cut corners. Steele hadn’t been in a building yet that didn’t swell during the day and pop and creak each night when it settled. Usually he didn’t notice, but moving through the final rooms was unnerving, and by the time he got to the last one on the second floor, his shoulders were on fire.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead and bent to look out the window. It was amazing how heavy a 1.6-pound pistol could get if you weren’t relaxed. He knew better and chided himself, but forgot the pain the moment he saw the target building.

The neon dragon dancing on the roof glinted off the puddles in sparks of yellow and red. Outside the Dragon’s Door the line stretched back around the block. Steele set the pistol on the ledge and checked the Rolex Submariner on his wrist. It was 11:25. He pulled a magnifier from the inside pocket of his Manning and Manning jacket and pressed it to his eye.

“I’m on target,” he said.

“Uploading the feed, stand by,” Demo replied.

While his handler remotely connected to the magnifier’s Bluetooth so he could watch the feed, Steele went over what he knew of the operation. He had received the dossier three days ago by secure courier. Known as the “target package,” the mission files and operations order contained in the dossier were supposed to provide him with everything he needed to plan and execute the operation. This one had the CIA’s stench all over it.

There was no chain-of-custody slip on the front, so he had no idea who’d rushed it to the White House, but what made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up was the intel. Everything about the file, from the narrative explaining how the NSA had pinged the target’s phone in Beirut to the exact time he was supposed to show up at the club, was too precise to be a rush. Someone had taken a great deal of time on the packet, and the first word that popped into Steele’s mind was “convenient.”

“Looks like we have company,” Demo said as a silver Land Rover pulled up in front of the club.

Steele checked his watch. It was exactly 11:30. Right on time.

Two men got out, and the one from the front moved back and pressed his butt against the passenger door. The second man posted up on the street, hand inside his jacket. They were pros. Steele could tell that much by the way they handled the street.

Julian Burrows stepped out of the SUV without a care in the world. He popped his jacket, making a big show of the gold on his wrist. He was a small man, with stooped shoulders, and despite the half-million-dollar bounty on his head, he still dressed like a 1980s pimp with a red silk shirt open at the collar.

“You’d think a guy like that would try to keep a low profile,” Demo said.

Burrows had started out as a Ukrainian pimp before graduating to trafficking cocaine and heroin from Afghanistan. He’d been a pissant before the dope, not even a blip on Steele’s radar, but then he started moving weapons.

Should have brought the rifle up with me, Steele thought as he waited for Demo to run the man’s face through the facial recognition program. I could hit him right here, and by the time the check cleared I’d be in Ibiza, sipping mai tais on the beach.

“It’s him,” Demo said.

That was all Steele needed to hear. He returned to the Mercedes, moved to the rear bumper, and popped the trunk. It bounced open an inch, the light revealing a man with duct tape over his mouth.

“Easy there, Hamid,” Steele said in Arabic, making sure the owner of the Mercedes saw the pistol before opening the trunk all the way. “If I take the tape off are you going to play by the rules this time?”

The man cursed at him through the tape, but changed his tune when Steele looked like he was going to shut the trunk.

“Well, what’s it gonna be?”

Hamid shook his head up and down, an awkward movement considering the size of the trunk. It reminded Steele of a dog hamming it up for a treat. “You sure?”

The Arab tried to talk, but it sounded like a string of vowels because of the tape. Steele reached in and ripped it free so he could understand what the Arab was saying.

“I couldn’t understand you,” he said, shaking the duct tape by way of explanation.

“I said,” Hamid began a bit too forcefully. He paused, taking the hint from the ice in Steele’s jade eyes, and adjusted his tone. “I apologize for hitting you with the lamp.”

“Fair enough.”

Steele lifted the man out of the trunk with one hand and set him on the bumper. At his height, Steele was careful to appear unimposing. It was a skill drilled into him during training. He had his tailor cut his jackets wide in the shoulders to hide his bulk and keep his gun from printing. But the camouflage was only skin deep, and wouldn’t hold up to the trained eye. No matter how he walked or what he wore, there was no hiding the fact that he was a hunter.

“So Burrows and Ronna in the same place, that’s a thousand to one odds. Tell me what I’m not seeing, Hamid.”

“I told you what I know.”

Steele believed him and pushed the pistol into the front of his pants, cholo style. He slipped a blade from his pocket and held it up, looking into Hamid’s eyes for any sign of deceit. It didn’t matter if the man was lying or not, Steele realized as he cut his bonds, because he already had his orders.

He slipped the knife away, and when his hand came back into view there was a roll of cash. Hamid might be a piece of crap, but the man had a wife and a kid on the way. Steele knew firsthand what it was like to grow up without a father. His dad had walked out when he was nine, forcing his mom to work two jobs just to keep a roof over his head. It wasn’t a life he would wish on his worst enemy.

“Get your wife the hell out of Beirut before that baby is born,” Steele hissed.

Hamid obviously hadn’t expected to be let go, and the relief was evident on his face, but the fact that Steele was helping him was too much for the man to bear. Tears formed at the edges of his eyes and his voice broke with emotion.

“I thought you were going to kill me,” he said, taking the money.

“Give me a break. If I killed everyone who hit me with a lamp, I wouldn’t have any friends left.”

“That’s for damn sure,” Demo remarked.

Steele muted the earpiece and grabbed a duffel bag from the trunk. He tossed Hamid the keys and walked back to the building to get ready. He took off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled an ultra-thin Kevlar vest over his well-muscled torso. He cinched it tight, hearing the Mercedes start up outside.

Steele was under no illusions about what was waiting for him inside the bar. Men like Ronna and Julian Burrows were killers, and Jean-Luc, the man who owned the club, would do whatever it took to protect his clients. Steele knew that if he wasn’t on his game there was a good chance he wouldn’t make it out alive.

He stuck his left arm through the loop of a bungee sling and stretched it across his back. At one end there was a magazine pouch; on the other hung a Brügger & Thomet MP9. The machine pistol weighed less than three pounds and even with the built-in suppressor was only ten inches in length. It fit perfectly beneath his arm, but Steele knew that it wouldn’t slip the notice of the security guards at the door.

Finally he put his blazer back on and stuffed a can of CS, the military’s name for tear gas, and two Belgian mini grenades into the hidden pockets sewn inside. He took the wireless headset controller out of his pocket and unmuted it. The device was built to look like a key fob, complete with a silver Toyota emblem on the back. Using the fob, Steele unmuted the earpiece and stepped outside.

“Loop the security channel onto frequency two,” he said. There was a moment of silence.

“You’re hot,” Demo replied.

The secondary channel was “listen only,” which meant that Steele could hear the guards’ conversation through the earpiece but it would disappear anytime he or Demo transmitted over channel one.

“Got it. Here we go,” he said.

Steele skipped the line, angling for the guards at the top of the stairs. One was patting down a man in a tuxedo with an ease borne of thousands of repetitions. But Steele was fixated on the second guard, a bald man standing next to the red door. The golden emblazoned dragon winked from the lights above.

The guard’s name was Felix, and the bald ex-Legionnaire watched Eric’s approach with a flat expression. Steele knew he was committed now. There was no turning back.

Time to play the game, he told himself.

When Felix waved him forward, Steele stepped up, hands raised and painfully aware of the MP9 under his arm.

“I’m with the band,” he said in French, flashing the second guard a toothy grin.

The man grunted. Steele kept his eyes on Felix, tensing when the second guard ran his hands over his sport coat. He felt Steele’s weapon and took a tiny step back, his hand reaching for the pistol inside his own jacket.

“Easy,” Steele warned, his jade eyes cutting and cold.

There was no doubt in his mind what would happen if Felix didn’t step in very soon. He might get some of them, but in the end Steele knew he’d lose.

“Hey, baldy, you going to put a leash on your mutt?” he asked Felix.

The second guard snarled, and Steele saw the pistol coming out. It was now or never.

Chapter 3

100 miles south of Tunis

Nestled among the boulders, beneath a section of camo netting, Nathaniel West watched the highway through his night vision scope. The road looked like a gray ribbon laid over black scrub brush and green sand, and every time a car passed, West had to take his eyes out of the scope to keep from being blinded.

As was the case with the rest of the cars he had seen since getting into position, by the time the Citroën’s headlights found the bend in the road, the driver had to slam on his brakes to keep the tires on the asphalt.

It was the perfect kill zone.

West rested his scarred chin on the buttstock of the Barrett .50 cal and savored the breeze that blew in from the desert. I bet it’s beautiful in the daylight.

The radio came to life with a flash of static.

“Road Runner to Coyote.”

“Go for Coyote,” his spotter, Peter Villars, answered.

West didn’t notice the rush of blood coursing through his veins until his face got hot. Most of the nerve endings had been burned away on the left side of his body, but he could still feel the right side of his face.

There was only one reason why the observation post he’d set two miles down the road would break radio silence. The target vehicles were in sight. He had to give it to Commander Massi. That jundi of his really did have a gift. Everything was coming together, just like he said it would.

“Coyote, target in sight.”

West smiled, a rare moment of emotion that, because of the scarring, looked more like a grimace in the green light spilling from the night vision optic. In the last three days he had achieved the impossible. Not only had he played the CIA, but he had manipulated the Program into sending his old protégé to Beirut. The best part was that they had no idea.

“Roger that,” Villars said before reaching into his pocket and extracting a wadded-up hundred-dollar bill. West reached for it, but at the last second Villars pulled it back an inch and said, “Double or nothing Steele’s a no-show.”

West’s grimace shifted into a full-on grin. “It’s your money,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, like the rumble of thunder on the horizon. He plucked the cash from the man’s fingers and shoved it into his back pocket.

“What time is it?”

“Twenty-three thirty.”

Right on cue the Iridium satellite phone in West’s pocket rang. He had the backlight turned all the way down so it wouldn’t give away his position. “I wonder who that could be?” he asked with a theatrical smile.


“Oh, hey, Felix,” West said in French, playing it up to the discomfort of his spotter. “You don’t say.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and whispered, “Eric Steele just showed up at the Dragon’s Door. What are the chances of that happening?”

“Shit,” Villars swore.

West went back to the phone. “Felix, be a dear and make sure he doesn’t leave. Give Jean-Luc my regards while you’re at it.”

There was another rustle of cash and West put the bill with its partner. “Easy money.”

He pulled the Barrett .50 cal toward him, while his spotter settled behind the thermal scope set up on the tripod. West adjusted the focus knob, maxing out the magnification, pressed his chest to the ground, and opened his legs until they formed a V behind him.

“Spotter up.”

“Stand by,” West muttered.

The road had been built atop a thick layer of gravel and the edges sloped down on each side. His men had hammered a series of range stakes into the low ground on the left side of the road. They were a hundred meters apart, and every other stake had a blue ribbon tied to the top that fluttered in the wind. The Barrett had an effective range of 2,000 yards and the last stake was set at 800—a chip shot for the powerful rifle.

“I’m on the 8,” he said.

They had preset the routine earlier in the day and both men agreed that ambushing the lead vehicle at an assigned range was the best course of action.

“Wind out of the east—full value.”


West had spent a lot of time behind “the glass” and knew the power wind had over ballistics. During the day he could have used the heat shimmering off the asphalt, what snipers called mirage. It was the same phenomenon you experienced when driving on a hot summer day. But at night he had to use the flags.

As a child, West remembered a road trip with his parents from Colorado to California. In the desert the heat made it look like there was water on the road, and he was always disappointed when the old station wagon passed the spot and it was dry.

When the lead vehicle appeared in the upper edge of his scope he adjusted for both wind and distance.

Aim small, miss small, he said to himself.

He had less than thirty seconds to finish his ritual. Using his toes, West loaded the bipod, pushing his body tight into the buttstock. He set his cheek on the rest, locked into the gun, his body set up to absorb the recoil.

His mind calculated the data needed to put a 750-grain armor-piercing bullet into the bow tie affixed to the grille. Hitting a target the size of a coffee can was hard enough. When the target was moving at 80 miles per hour West knew he had to be right on the money. He focused on breathing normally—even breaths in and out. The reticle was locked in high and to the right of the spot he actually wanted to put the bullet, and then he flicked the safety off with his thumb.

“Package identified. He is in the rear passenger seat.”

West picked up the first of the three vehicles in his scope.

“Cleared hot in five, four, three . . .”

He wasn’t thinking anymore. His mind was clear, and as he settled into the rhythm of his spotter’s count his finger closed on the trigger. “Smooth, smooth,” he said to himself, applying more and more pressure to the trigger.

At the bottom of his exhale the target vehicle appeared in his crosshairs. The big gun bucked to life, recoil shoving the rifle back into his shoulders, and with no place to go the muzzle traveled skyward. West lost the sight picture for a second even though his face never left the stock. His right hand worked the bolt, snapping the handle up and ripping it to the rear. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the expended brass cartwheel from the gun. He was already shoving the bolt forward, stuffing a fresh round into the chamber.

By the time he got back on target the API, or armor-piercing incendiary, round had reached the end of its one-way trip. It exploded in a flash of light, the bonded core howling through the engine block like a freight train with a full head of steam. It punched through, ripping pistons and shearing cams, and still had enough velocity to blast through the firewall before dropkicking the driver in the pelvis.

The report bounced over the countryside, the sign for his men to engage. A nearside machine gun, nestled in a copse of boulders, opened up on the lead vehicle. The M240 Bravo chewed through the belt of 7.62 ammo. It fired a standard four-to-one mix, four steel-jacketed rounds per every tracer, and the six-second burst sounded like a buzz saw going off. The tracers hit the side of the vehicle and ricocheted skyward, a flicker of orange. The gunner worked the rounds across the door panel, killing the driver and sending the truck headlong into the desert. It didn’t get far.

The driver of the rear vehicle slammed on the brakes. He turned the wheel to avoid the SUV stalled in front of him, but he wasn’t fast enough to outrun the AT4 that screamed in from the road. The 84mm rocket crossed the distance in less than the blink of an eye, turning the SUV into a rolling fireball.

“Well, that escalated quickly,” West said.

Four men dressed in plate carriers and carrying rifles rushed the target vehicle, a pair of jeeps bumping into view behind them. West grabbed his rifle while Villars took down the camo net.

“Jackpot. I repeat, Jackpot,” a voice said over the radio.

West slung the Barrett and shot Villars a smile. “Let’s go grab our nuke,” he said before heading down the hill to join the rest of his team.

Chapter 4


Eric Steele felt the seconds stretching into hours. Felix just stared at him. He was imposing and dark, dressed in a black suit, the only spot of color coming from the long white scar that hooked over a mangled ear, down the side of his face, and into his shirt.

“C’est bon—it’s good.” Felix finally nodded.

Steele let out a sigh of relief and stepped past the guard.

“I wish I could say it was good to see you,” Felix said, opening his arms.

“I get that a lot.” Steele’s hand slipped into his pocket, emerging with a black felt bag. The two men embraced, and Steele passed him the bag. “Played that one to the very end, didn’t you?”

“Least I could do for a friend,” the Algerian hissed, not an ounce of warmth in the words.

They both knew why Steele was here.

Felix bounced the payment in his palm, eyebrows arching as he took in the weight and then with a nod slipped it away.

“You need to go, now,” Steele said.

“I have a wife. Jean-Luc will find me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him.”

Felix’s eyes sparked with a feral glint.

Steele tightened his grip on the man’s arm. “But before you do anything stupid, I want you to realize that there is no reason for your wife to become a widow tonight. You leave now and you will never see me again. But if you stay . . .”

The silence was deafening, heavy with the promise of violence that emanated like a live wire between the two men. Felix was the first to blink.

“C’est la vie,” he said with a Gallic shrug. That’s life.

“You got that right.”

Steele forced him out of the way, grabbed the door’s golden handle, and stepped inside. He found himself in the entryway, lights and sound pouring from the crack at the bottom of the door. He took a deep breath and stepped in.

What he saw inside made sensory overload feel like a decaf latte, and he moved out to the side and scanned his surroundings. The house lights were turned low over the dance floor, which was about the same size as a 7-Eleven parking lot. Every inch was crammed with sweat-soaked bodies jumping, grinding, and bouncing in time with what Steele assumed was music.

The bass from the subwoofer reverberated off the far wall and palm-heeled him square in the chest. Ultraviolet lights strobed on and off, while green lasers oscillated through the fog rising around the DJ booth. A shirtless Arab hunched over a mixing board presided over the masses. He drove the music to a shrill crescendo, and when it could go no higher, he threw his hands into the air and screamed.

The crowd was frenetic.

Steele saw the bar to his right and stepped into the fray. The scene reminded him of a fishing trip he’d taken in South Africa, where the captain chummed the waters and laughed when the great whites rolled in.

The music was so loud that Steele had to turn the radio’s volume all the way up to hear Demo say, “Sounds like my kind of party, mano.”

Steele knew that right now Felix was outside, making a choice. The scarred ex-Legionnaire would either beat feet for the docks or alert his boss and then try to put a bullet in the back of his skull. No matter the decision, Steele knew he was running short on time and needed to find Jean-Luc before the alert was given.

He scanned the faces sitting at the tables as he moved. Years of practice allowed him to easily separate the predators from the prey. Finally he saw Jean-Luc peacocking at the bar. The Frenchman was hard to miss even among the chaos, because of his signature silver fauxhawk. He was chatting up a young girl, most likely underage, whose glassy eyes were fixed on the bar. The girl picked a rolled bill from the bar, bent her head, and aimed the open end at a mirror with cocaine lined across its surface. Steele waited until her head was down and then slipped in behind Jean-Luc. He jammed his finger in the base of the man’s back.

“DGSE, don’t move,” he ordered as the girl sucked the white powder up her nose.

“Merde,” Jean-Luc cursed. The Frenchman had good reason to fear the Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure, or Directorate-General for External Security, as it was known in the United States; they had been after him for years. But he quickly regained his composure and started negotiating. “Listen to me. I know what they pay you in France and I will double it right here, right now.”

He was stalling and Eric knew it.

The girl looked up from the dope, a smear of white on her nostril, and Jean-Luc made his move. But Steele was ready and caught his hand creeping toward the bottom edge of the bar where a panic button was installed.

“Push that button and I will burn you down,” Steele said, this time in English.

“Hey, where did you come from?” the girl demanded.

The Frenchman recognized Steele’s voice and tried to play it cool. “Don’t worry, Judith, dear, Eric is an old friend. Jesus, buddy, you scared me.”

He tried to turn around, but Steele wasn’t having it. “Get rid of her,” he ordered, pulling the man away from the bar by the back of his Italian suit coat.

“Give us a second, love.”

Steele didn’t wait for her to leave. He muscled Jean-Luc a half step to the right, until they were both facing the mirror over the bar. In this position he could watch Jean-Luc’s face and make sure no one snuck up on his six.

“What do you want?” Jean-Luc demanded, his eyebrows darting upward into sharp little Vs, giving him the look of a frosted Satan.

“What was our deal?”

Jean-Luc’s tongue flashed nervously across his thin lips, eyes scanning for the help that wasn’t coming.

“What was it?” Steele asked, switching to French so there would be no confusion.

“No more guns.”

“That’s right. No more guns. So imagine my surprise when I found out that you were facilitating a deal between Burrows and Ronna.” Steele was lying—he had no idea what involvement the man had in the arms deal—but he knew that Jean-Luc got a piece of every deal that happened in his place. “Where are they?”

Steele had to get moving. Right now there was no sign that anyone was on to him, but when things broke bad, which he knew they would, it would happen in the blink of an eye. There were enough guns in the club to start a second intifada, and if there was going to be gunplay, he wanted to start it.

“VIP,” the Frenchman hissed.

“Take me to them,” Steele said, grabbing a handful of jacket and pulling him closer. He checked the mirror; no one was paying them any attention. He yanked the FN from its holster and shoved it into the back of Jean-Luc’s waistband. He held him close, giving him a final warning. “You play it straight and I will let you live, but if I even think you are stepping out of bounds I am going kill you. Now walk.”

Steele stayed close, an easy smile on his face. They were just two guys walking through a crowded club. He just hoped the ruse would hold up.

There were two guards flanking the arch leading into the VIP section. Steele tensed. If Jean-Luc was going to make a move it would happen here, but the man just nodded and walked past. Everything was going smoothly, and Steele thought he might just pull it off when Demo’s voice filled his ear.

“Eric, we’ve got trouble.”

Chapter 5


It was 11:30 p.m. and CIA Director Robin Styles was standing barefoot on the balcony outside her bedroom. God, the tile is cold, she thought, curling her manicured toes against the chill. She had been up since four waiting for the team she had sent to Algiers to report in. The later it got, the more her sleep-deprived brain ran over the list of things that could have gone wrong.

No news is good news.

When she finally began to feel the effects of the Ambien she grabbed the empty wineglass from the table at her feet and stepped inside.

Her bedroom was well furnished and warm, a far cry from the one in rural Kentucky where she had grown up. Styles could still remember the sound of the leaking faucet and lying in bed listening to the drip, drip, drip reverberating off the steel sink.

She eyed the bed on the way to the bathroom, wanting nothing more than to dive beneath the comforter and go to sleep. The picture on the bedside table quickly dissuaded her.

The photo was of her mother and it was the only memento in the room. Everything else was replaceable. Styles kept the picture to remind her of what happened to people who took the easy road. Her mother had everything she needed to get out of Kentucky, but traded it all for a five-minute romp in the back of a rusted Ford pickup.

If you could see me now, Momma.

Styles went into the bathroom to wash her face instead of jumping into bed. As the first female Director of the CIA, she knew the importance of “optics.” It doesn’t matter how good a job I’m doing, she thought. If I got caught on camera looking like a tired hag, the media would go crazy. She followed up with a gentle toner and a nighttime cream. Only after she had finished her ritual did she finally crawl into bed and drift off to sleep.

A rattling on her nightstand woke her up three hours later. Styles came out of the sleep like a ship emerging from the fog, eyeballs burning, the room out of focus and hazy.

It can’t be morning already.

The clock on the cable box said it was 2:30 a.m. Styles rubbed her hand over her face, trying to place the vibrating sound. What is that noise? Then it hit her: my cell phone. She snatched the offending device off the table, and cursed when the phone snagged on the charger.

“This better be good,” she snapped.

“You need to get down here.”

Jesus Christ, what now?

The line was unsecured, and as much as she wanted to ask what had happened, she simply said, “I’m on my way.”

She got dressed and grabbed the keys to the Jeep on the way to the garage. As the Director of the CIA, Styles had a driver and a government-issued Suburban, but government vehicles were equipped with GPS chips, and the last thing Styles needed was someone finding out where she was going. In the last twenty-four hours she had broken enough laws to earn a free room at the black site of her choice. Treason was one thing, but what she had done, shit, they didn’t even have a law for that. Styles didn’t want to think about it and held to the mantra she had been using since President Cole took office.

Cole can’t burn you if he doesn’t know.

Robin Styles had joined the Agency back in the 1980s when America was still fighting the Cold War. While her colleagues were fixated on Russia, Styles got the Middle East desk. She quickly proved that she was more than just a pretty face, developing intel that Hezbollah and the PLO were an emerging threat. She tried to warn her boss, but the man laughed at her.

Then in 1983, Islamic Jihad blew up the Marine barracks in Beirut and the jokes stopped. Styles got a promotion and hadn’t stopped climbing the ladder since.

Thirty minutes later, Robin Styles pulled across the railroad tracks, the Jeep’s headlights spraying over the fractured concrete drive. The industrial plaza was a mix of warehouses in dire need of a pressure washing and squat office buildings that looked like gray pillboxes. It was not the place you’d expect the CIA to have an off-the-books listening station, which was why Styles put it there.

She pulled the Jeep into a spot next to a sign that read looking glass solutions. On paper, LGS was a telecom provider, but in reality it was a CIA shell company Styles had been illegally funding for five years. When she cut the headlights a man in light blue coveralls stepped out of the shadows. He was red-faced from the wind, and peeking out of his jacket Styles saw the rear sight of an H&K MP7.

“They are waiting for you inside, ma’am.”

The building was a no-frills operation and the bare concrete floors were dotted with strips of carpet tape. The walls were also bare and the pipes were exposed in the ceiling. Styles had poured millions into the facility, but the only way you would know it was if you had access to the vault.

Styles hadn’t kept an iron grip on the CIA by playing by the rules. Her job was to protect the United States from its enemies, especially those in the White House. She hadn’t had these problems under the previous administration. President Bentley had been her ally. But Cole was a different story.

She badged herself through the steel door and stepped into a small room with tan walls and a desk surrounded by a bulletproof cubicle. The door closed behind her, causing her ears to pop.

The room was soundproof, with a lead insert that kept cell phone signals from coming in or out. Styles knew this because she had signed off on the plans and paid for the building using money siphoned from the black fund.

There was one more door, and when she stepped through, Styles was in a room smaller than her den. It was cooler in here and the only light came from the two large monitors sitting on a desk. The temperature was kept low to protect the supercomputers that took up the rest of the space. About the size of a refrigerator and arrayed with a panel of blinking lights, the massive machines hummed behind a protective steel cage that kept anyone from ripping out one of the drives.

Unlike the guards, the man behind the desk was in his late twenties. He was dressed in a stained T-shirt and had a wispy beard. His workstation was clean, but the trash can was full of empty Red Bull cans and foil gum wrappers wadded into little balls. He rotated the chair toward the door, his face void of its usual cocky grin.

Above all the assets that made up Styles’s arsenal, she liked the geeks the best. There was no guile in their motives, and as long as she made sure to give them the newest gear and the fastest Internet, they were happy. It was a lesson the NSA ignored, which in Styles’s opinion was the main reason why Edward Snowden had developed a conscience and decided to leak reams of classified documents to the world.

Not that it mattered. Styles had managed to turn the fiasco to her advantage by stealing the STATEROOM program, one of the top-secret assets Snowden leaked from inside Russian custody. According to the Director’s congressional testimony, STATEROOM didn’t exist anymore. The satellite map covered in blue and green dots on the technician’s monitor said otherwise.

In its most basic form STATEROOM was a clearinghouse for government and commercial telecommunication assets, a database of audio and video recordings that was updated every second. Styles called it “the unblinking eye,” and it was illegal as hell.

The blue dots were commercial platforms, and the government owned the green ones. The tech double clicked on a blue dot he had marked with a red pin and the UAV’s heads-up display filled the screen. Styles knew it was a passive link, meaning that the tech could control the camera if the feed was open, but could not alter the drone’s flight plan, and at 30,000 feet in the dark, the drone wasn’t much.

“What is so important?” she asked.

The tech’s fingers rattled over the keyboard and a satellite overlay popped up below the feed. It showed a highway and an antenna icon moving east. When he clicked on the icon a little box displaying the speed, compass heading, and lat/long appeared.

“I found Breul’s phone,” he said.

Styles was impressed. Two decades at the CIA had told her that locating Ali Breul was a fool’s errand, a task she equated with finding a needle in a stack of needles. But her geeks had come through. The jolt of triumph was tempered as her sleep-deprived mind processed what the tech had just told her.

“How did you get the phone?” she asked, praying he was smart enough not to use the NSA.

Phone intercepts were the purview of the National Security Agency, who used their satellites and Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance, or ISR, platforms to signal all over the world. The boys at Fort Meade had “turned over a new leaf” after Snowden went public, promising Congress that they had shut down their surveillance programs. Styles knew it was bullshit.

The NSA was still spying on the world. They just weren’t sharing it anymore.

“I ran it through a few open repeaters and cell phone towers. Actually got a hit faster than if I had used the NSA.”

“Well done,” Styles congratulated him. It was good news, but she knew he hadn’t gotten her out of bed to tell her that he’d found an asset’s phone.

“This is a recording from the drone feed,” he said, pointing at the screen. He hit the play button and activated the drone’s thermal camera.

The darkness disappeared, replaced by a gray landscape and a convoy of trucks that glowed black from the heat of the engines. The tech leaned forward, finger outstretched, and pointed at the lead vehicle. In the next instant there was a flash of light on the screen followed by an ink-black fireball that suddenly flared.

“What the hell was that?” Styles asked, waiting for the thermal iris to refresh so she could see what was going on.

Instead of replying, the tech zoomed in, and when the picture returned a moment later, the director saw tracer fire slamming into the convoy, which was now stopped and on fire in the middle of the road. A group of men appeared from what looked like a ditch. They advanced on the convoy, muzzles flashing in the dark.

Oh my God.

The first thing that popped into Styles’s mind was that in three hours the sun would be up and the President would get his daily intelligence briefing. The Director of National Intelligence would make sure the first thing he told President Cole was that Styles had lost a team in Tunis.

She knew how Cole’s brain worked. The first question out of his mouth would be, “What were they doing in Tunis?”

I have to get ahead of this. But how?

The answer came out of sheer desperation. You are going to call a briefing. Get your story on record before Cole and his lapdogs hear it from anyone else.

It was a game called “controlling the narrative,” and Styles was a master.

She knew what would happen if anyone ever learned the truth behind the operation she was running. Going to jail would be the least of my concerns. Once the decision was made, she didn’t hesitate. “Kill the feed and erase the log,” she ordered. “I was never here, and this”—Styles jabbed a manicured nail at the screen—“this never happened.”

Chapter 6


Inside the Dragon’s Door, Demo’s warning was followed up by Felix’s voice on the security channel.

“Security breach, code one. Blue jacket, black hair. I am sending a picture.”

“You are blown.”

Well, that didn’t take long.

Steele couldn’t go back if he wanted to, the men standing guard behind him had seen to that. He knew there was an emergency exit on the back wall, but to get there he had to keep going.

The VIP section was divided up into little cubes with a walkway that ran toward the back of the building. The cubes to Steele’s left and right were built on top of a raised dais and surrounded by a waist-high wall. He couldn’t see over the wall because he was below it, but he assumed they were laid out the same.

A never-ending line of servers bustled back and forth with trays of food and drinks. Steele had to push Jean-Luc to the side to let one pass, which gave him an opportunity to look up the set of stairs and probe the layout. The stairs were the only way in or out, and when he looked up after the server, Steele saw that the back wall of each section was mirrored.

Got to go in fast and hard. The stairs are a kill zone and then three leather couches and a low table. One maybe two hard corners. Not good.

“Which one is it?” he demanded, shoving the Frenchman forward while the clock in his head ticked away. Got to move. He didn’t hear his answer because of the noise, and Steele levered the pistol into Jean-Luc’s back. A not too gentle reminder as to who was in charge.

Jean-Luc flinched from the pain and held up four fingers, then gestured to the right.

Steele imagined twenty seconds had elapsed since Felix dimed him out. It felt like forever. Being exposed like this made his back itch. He glanced behind him, checking his back trail. Dammit. One of the guards had stepped through the archway and was standing in the center of the walk, his face lit up by the phone in his hand.

Steele jammed his thumb down on the channel one button until there was a beep in the earpiece. The sound told him that the mike was now open and anything he said or heard would transmit to Demo without his having to push the button.

“Get the car, things are about to get ugly,” he told his handler.

“Already on it.”

Steele ducked down, hoping the ebb and flow of high rollers and servers would protect him. When things went sideways, and they often did, there was no cavalry waiting on the other side of the hill.

They were within ten feet when Jean-Luc made his move. He jumped forward like a sprinter coming out of the blocks, twisting his arm back to strike at Steele. “I see him,” the radio crackled.

Steele yanked on the pistol, but the front sight got snagged on the Frenchman’s belt. Jean-Luc’s right arm hit him in the wrist, a painful bone-on-bone collision that wrenched the Five-seven out of his grip. Steele could make out Burrows’s bodyguard posted up ahead, faithfully guarding his boss’s booth.

Jean-Luc shouted a warning while trying to dodge the server who seemed to appear out of nowhere. The bodyguard turned to his left, reached into his jacket, and squared up to the threat. Steele’s instincts told him that he was too far behind the eight-ball to get the MP9 into action fast, so he improvised.

He launched a kick at Jean-Luc’s ankle that would have made an NFL punter proud. His leg muscles pistoned his foot toward its target like a hot rod on a quarter-mile track. The impact snapped the fleeing Frenchman’s puny ankle, causing him to tumble into the server.


The bodyguard froze, trying to make sense of the tangle of legs that had appeared before him. Steele stayed low; he could see the pistol a few feet ahead, but knew he’d never make it. Instead he lowered his shoulder into the unsuspecting server, who was frozen in place by his boss’s bloodcurdling shrieks. Steele hit him hard and sent him tumbling into Burrows’s man. He snatched a beer bottle from the ground, and was swinging it when the bodyguard panicked and fired.

Orange flame erupted from the barrel, scorching the server’s white jacket. There was a flash of blood; Steele kept moving toward the threat, shutting everything away. He was in the zone, the dark raging place he’d always gone when the killing started. Steele slammed the bottle against the bodyguard’s skull. Glass and beer exploded in a cloud, mixing with the blood that erupted from the impact. What was left in his hand was a jagged shard attached to the neck like some primeval blade.

It was the only weapon Steele needed. He pushed the falling server into the bodyguard, and saw the man fold like a table when the dead man’s head slammed into his solar plexus. Steele was so close that he smelled the bodyguard’s cologne, a musky scent that made his eyes water. The man shifted, trying to keep his balance while pushing the corpse off him. His pistol was useless, but he cracked off another shot. It buzzed past Steele’s ear like an angry hornet.

Ears ringing from the gunshot, Steele grabbed the pistol with his left hand and forced the guard’s arm up, uncovering his armpit. He drove the makeshift blade into unprotected flesh, four quick jabs that had more in common with a prison shanking than a government-sanctioned hit. The jagged blade must have hit the lung and a jet of blood sprayed across the side of Steele’s face, carrying the stench of the guard’s breath. The blood smelled of old pennies, but the air of vodka and garlic.

On the fifth strike the blade hit bone and splintered, leaving a jagged haft in Steele’s hand. He sunk it into the man’s thigh and dove sideways for the FN. It wasn’t a moment too soon.

Steele saw the wall explode in a puff of masonry dust and drywall and then he heard the shot. He landed on his side, grabbed the pistol, and rolled to the left. The shooter was moving toward him, firing on the move. His second shot hit the ground where Steele had been a moment before, and the bullet whined when it ricocheted up, striking a woman in the pelvis.

He fired three shots, engaging the shooter from his back. The suppressor sounded like a book being dropped onto a concrete floor. Thwap, thwap, thwap. Steele got up to his knees, turreted the pistol toward the bodyguard bleeding all over the wall, and put him out of his misery.

Steele switched the Five-seven into his left hand and jerked one of the mini frags from his pocket. The grenade was smaller than a racquetball, and he had straightened the pin beforehand for just this reason. He looped the ring over his left thumb and yanked it. The spring pinged the spoon free, arming the fragmentation grenade, and Steele bolted to the stairs in a crouch.

One thousand, two thousand, three thousand.

He saw his reflection in the mirror. Beneath the macabre mask made of glistening blood, his green eyes burned with the fire of impending violence. He could see five men in the center of the room and used the glass to bounce the mini frag into their midst.

Four thousand . . .

The frag exploded, and Steele came around the corner low, pistol up and firing.

The mini grenade had gone off under the table, filling the cube with smoke and the screams of the wounded. Steele worked from left to right, icepicking the full metal jackets through the bodyguard’s soft armor with the kinetic energy of a rocket ship. The first shots were low, on purpose, and he snapped two rounds into one of his targets’ pelvises, letting the muzzle rise carry the barrel up, while he pivoted to the right.

He gave Ronna a single shot to the eye, double-tapped a bodyguard whose shin had been blown open, and then settled on Burrows.

“Should have stayed away,” he said with a shrug, and then he blew the man’s brains against the back wall.

Bullets cracked over the VIP box and Steele dumped the Five-seven and yanked the MP9 out. He climbed up on one of the smoldering couches and ripped a burst into the shooters. He saw Felix rushing down the walkway, a shotgun in his hands. He aimed at his belt and stitched five rounds up to his neck.

The club was in chaos, the music mixing with the screams of dancers and drunken businessmen. Steele was careful with his shots, avoiding collateral damage like the plague. He only fired when he had a target, and after working through the magazine, he stepped down from the couch and pulled the CS gas out of his jacket. He surveyed the damage, and once he was sure that everyone he had come to kill was dead, he rammed a fresh magazine into the MP9 and calmly walked down the steps.

He ripped the pin from the canister and tossed it into the club, fixed his jacket, and headed for the emergency exit. Before the tear gas filled the Dragon’s Door, Eric Steele pushed the door open and stepped into the alley.

A late-model sedan skidded to a halt where the alley opened up to the street. Steele jogged over, saw Demo lean across the seat and pop the door as he approached. Steele hazarded a final look behind him and hopped into the vehicle.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day, mano,” Demo said, nodding to the red and blue lights screaming up the street behind them.

Chapter 7


Meg Harden saw the kick coming, but wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way. It landed with a snap, causing her thigh to go numb. She raised her gloves, wiping the sweat from her eyes in preparation for the onslaught to follow, but nothing happened.

“C’mon,” her sparring partner taunted with a cocky little wave.

Meg’s face got hot and it had nothing to do with the pain.

Her sparring partner went by James or Jack—she couldn’t remember. The CIA Special Operations guys were all the same. Cocky ex–Special Forces who just wanted to fuck her.

At five foot five, Meg was a stunner. She had shoulder-length black hair, which she always wore in a ponytail, a perfectly upturned nose, and dimples that usually made her male coworkers forget how to talk.

Meg didn’t mind the cockiness, or the fact that James kept staring at her tits. What pissed her off was that he was going easy on her.

She found that extremely disrespectful, and when he sent another halfhearted leg kick her way, Meg made him pay for it.

She shot in like a snake, left arm down, to block the strike. She hit him in the stomach, as hard as she could. The blow knocked the breath out of him, but she wasn’t finished. Once her left foot was set, Meg scythed her right heel back and into James’s calf. It hit like a hammer and sent him tumbling on his ass.


Meg easily achieved the mount and dropped a few punches on his face before letting him up. James used his thumb to wipe the blood from his nose and raised his gloves. Meg circled to the left, and he closed the distance a few times, but it was obvious his heart wasn’t in it.

If I were a man he’d be trying to beat my ass.

They sparred for another ten minutes, but the playful flirting was over, and now that sex was off the table, James just wanted to get on with his day. Meg knew she was intense, and while she expected to be treated like one of the guys, it always turned out the same way. Once a man lost his self-confidence, his interest in her quickly followed.

Meg left the gym, her flip-flops smacking against her feet, but slowed before entering the living quarters. Most of the people who lived adjacent to her worked nights and Meg didn’t want to wake them up. She pinned the offending soles to the bottom of her feet by curling her toes and taking smaller steps.

It made her feel like she was sneaking into her parents’ house, which brought a smile to her face.

She unlocked the door with the key that hung around her neck and stepped inside. The room was small and obsessively tidy. Along the far wall her bed was tightly made, and the only things on the desk were a laptop and a small lamp. The walls were bare and the same neutral brown as the hotel-size chest of drawers.

She tossed her towel on the bed and booted up the laptop before heading toward the bathroom. Before she crossed the threshold she felt something nagging at her. Meg stopped, her pretty face framed in the mirror.

“Just leave it,” she told herself.

Being a neat freak was a daily struggle. In college her roommates would stage little messes, then run off and hide. It didn’t matter if she was late for class or a date, Meg fell for it every time. And just as soon as she threw up her hands and started to clean up the mess, there would be a chorus of muffled laughter behind her.

The Army had just made it worse.

Meg had spent ten years in the Army and loved every minute of it. But the second time she was passed over for major, she didn’t need anyone to spell it out for her.

She was done.

Just turn on the shower, Meg Harden.

She turned on the water and held her hand up to test the temperature. Once satisfied, she pulled the curtain closed and tugged her shirt over her head. She tossed it into the plastic hamper, before moving back to the mirror and eyeing the towel again. She absently rubbed her palm over the leg of her workout pants in an attempt to dry her hands.

Her face wrinkled into an O, revealing a dimple on her right cheek.


Meg tugged her pants down around her ankles and heeled them back into the room. Taking a step back, she pointed her big toe, bringing her leg into view. The skin around her shapely thigh was red and angry, and a wine-colored bruise had begun to form. She gingerly fingertipped the puffy skin, all thoughts of the towel momentarily forgotten.

“Son of a bitch.”

Standing in front of the mirror in her bra and panties, Meg was reminded for the hundredth time that being a woman in a male-dominated world was not for the faint of heart. It was lonely and something her mother and sisters still didn’t understand.

“Don’t you want babies?” they’d asked the last time she went home to Pittsburgh.

“You obviously haven’t seen the men in the Army,” she’d replied.

When deployed, it was easy for a girl to forget what it meant to be a woman. In Iraq she had a group of girlfriends who loved the fact that being deployed meant no makeup and an easy hair day, but that wasn’t Meg. Sure, she skimped on makeup sometimes and liked to keep her hair up in a ponytail, but that was before she met Colt Weller.

The thought of the SOG officer made Meg aware that she hadn’t shaved her legs in three days. She took the razor from the shower caddy and set about remedying the problem before washing her hair and turning off the water. She stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and dressed quickly in a gray bra, a black tank top, and a worn-in pair of Mountain Hardware pants. She typed her password into the laptop, which unlocked with a ding. Meg pressed her thumb to the biometric reader then toweled her damp hair while waiting for the server to connect to the encrypted CIA interweb.

An hourglass spun lazily on the screen, telling her that the computer was uplinking with one of the Agency’s satellites. Before it could connect there was a sharp rap at the door.

“Yeah?” Meg asked.

“It’s me.”


Meg had turned her head toward the door at the sound of the knock, but froze when she recognized Colt’s voice. She saw her reflection in the bathroom mirror and it made her want to crawl under the bed and hide. Her cheeks were flushed below wet, formless hair. She saw the makeup bag sitting alone on the counter.

“H-hold on. I just got out of the shower,” she replied, tiptoeing quickly toward the makeup bag.

“I need you to hurry it up. We have a mission.”

Meg stopped in midstride, instantly forgetting about the makeup. She turned to the door and unlocked it with a twist of the knob.

“I um, I . . . Hey,” she said, opening the door.

“I wasn’t interrupting anything, was I?” Colt asked, making a show of looking around the room.

“What . . . no?” Meg quickly got hold of herself and tried to play it off. “Don’t tell me, someone crashed another iPad.”

“No idea,” Colt replied, stepping in the doorway but not entering her room. “You sure keep it clean in here.”

“Thanks,” Meg replied, grabbing a pair of socks.

“You know, I should be upstairs at the briefing, but for some reason when I told James to come and get you he suddenly had something really important to do. You know anything about that?”

Meg smiled innocently and finished tugging the final sock on. “Why would I know anything about that?” she asked, retrieving a pair of hiking boots from beneath the bed.

“Some of the guys said he’s been macking on this little brunette who works in operations.”

“What, are you jealous?”

Oh my God, why did I say that?

As the SOG, or Special Operations Group, team leader, Colt was one of the few men who knew what Meg really did for the CIA. He’d been around the block a few times, and with multiple tours in Iraq, Syria, and Afghanistan, he had a disarming manner that Meg found sexy. It didn’t hurt that he was good-looking and believed she was an asset for the Algiers station.

The only problem was that he treated Meg like she was his little sister.

“Why would I be jealous?” he asked with a confused look that annoyed the hell out of Meg.

“It was a joke,” she said, getting to her feet and heading to her wall locker. Can I make a bigger fool of myself?

She was excited to leave the wire. Since she was the only woman at the Algiers station, the station chief was loath to let her leave the compound. In fact, the only reason she had combat gear was because she had gone down to supply and scrounged it up herself.

She opened the locker and was reaching for the Glock 17 sitting on the top shelf when the wall started to vibrate. It was followed a moment later by a faint cruuuump that came from the north. The sound was as familiar as the smell of gun oil coming from the holstered Glock.

It was a mortar.

Meg grabbed the pistol, clipped it to her belt, and turned just as three more detonations erupted. Colt didn’t flinch. He stood in the doorway looking up at the ceiling with a furrowed brow, index finger held to his lips.

“You hear that?”

“Kind of hard to miss four mortar rounds.”

“No, listen.”

Meg didn’t hear anything at first, but then she made out a faint crackling in the distance. It was tentative, like the fireworks her brother used to shoot off before the big Fourth of July show, and just as distinctive.

“Those are AK-47s, and lots of them,” she said.

“We should go,” Colt replied. “Right now.”

Chapter 8

Tyre, Lebanon

Steele and Demo split up outside Beirut and Eric took the coastal highway toward Tyre. He stopped twice to switch cars. Twenty miles north of his destination, he donned a pair of night vision goggles. He cut the lights and bounced the SUV off the road. Under NODs the desert looked green and flat, the amplified light killing his depth perception. Far to the east he could see the hint of dawn.

Soon the sky would turn pink and blue as the sun slipped over the Mediterranean, and if he didn’t get to the landing zone soon he was going to have to remain overnight.

The GPS strapped to his wrist beeped and Steele hit the brakes and cut the engine. He grabbed his gear and stepped out of the Isuzu Rodeo before turning the radio on.

“Eagle, this is Stalker 7, how do you read?”

There was a moment of silence then a voice that sounded like it was coming from a tin can came up on the net.

“Stalker 7, this is Eagle, I read you five by five.”

“Good copy, Eagle, I am activating my beacon now.”

Steele flipped a switch on the radio, which activated the search and rescue that would give his location to the pilot.

“I’ve got you, Stalker 7, we are inbound at 98 degrees ETA zero five mikes, how copy?”

“Stalker copies.”

Steele carried the radio with him to the back of the SUV. He popped the hatch and leaned in to arm the charge he had taped to the five-gallon can of gas. The wireless detonator beeped in his hand, telling him that it had a signal. Steele closed the lift gate and headed back to his pack, the growl in his stomach reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in almost seven hours.

He was eating an apple when he caught sight of the MH-60 Pave Hawk coming low and fast over the water. He took a final bite of the apple before throwing it away. The special operations bird was almost on top of him and he stole a quick glance.

The pilot yanked the stick back and the bird rocked onto its tail. The engine screamed and the blades beat at the air, loading the tips with static electricity. Eric saw them turn yellow through his night vision and then ducked his head. A wall of sand, hot air, and dirt hit him in the chest, almost blowing him over, and he waited until the bird touched down before grabbing his pack and jumping to his feet.

The crew chief waited for him at the troop door. Eric noticed the double take when he saw what Steele was wearing.

“What? A guy can’t get dressed up for an op anymore?”

The crew chief shook his head and Steele hopped inside, followed by the crewman, who was about to slam the door when Steele shook his head no and held up the detonator.

The bird jumped skyward and Steele’s stomach rolled as the pilot banked the bird toward the sea. “Tell the pilot I’ve got to blow the car,” he yelled, leaning in close to the crew chief’s ear.

The crew chief nodded and pushed the transmit button on the internal radio. When he was given the thumbs-up, Steele leaned out the door and pressed the button on the detonator.

The explosion glinted orange, small at first, but it quickly grew into a towering pillar.

Not a bad day’s work, Steele thought.

He nodded to the crew chief and walked over to the nylon bench. He pulled a pair of headphones from the hook above him and shoved them over his ears. The pilot was transmitting over the encrypted high-frequency net.

“Eagle to Cutlass,” he said, using the Program’s operations center call sign. “We have the package and are feet wet.” Steele’s eyes closed, and he let the vibration of the helo rock him to sleep.

He felt someone shaking him awake. The pitch of the blades told him that the helo was descending. His eyes flashed open and he saw the crew chief standing a few inches away. He checked the GPS on his wrist; instead of landing in Cyprus, it appeared that the helo was setting down in the middle of the ocean.

Something’s wrong.

“Sir, a tasking just came over the satcom.”

“Where are we?”

“Landing on the Wasp.”

The USS Wasp, known in the Navy as LHD-1, was a multipurpose amphibian assault ship, basically a carrier for helicopters. Steele knew that the only reason they were landing on the deck as opposed to the base in Cyprus was because he was about to be redeployed.

The Pave Hawk touched down on the deck and when he stepped out the first thing he noticed was a Cobra attack helicopter spinning up next to a V-22 Osprey. The Osprey’s massive tilt rotors were pointed skyward and dwarfed the squad of men checking over their gear near the ramp. At first glance, Steele thought they were Marine Raiders, but realized his error as he got a better look at the master chief who came hustling toward him.

Steele had mistaken the Marine camo pattern for the new AOR, or Area of Responsibility, pattern worn by the SEALs.

“Sir, if you could follow me,” the master chief yelled over the whining engines. Steele fell in line behind him, dodging the aircrew that rushed out to refuel the Pave Hawk

“What’s going on, Chief?” Steele demanded once they were inside.

“No idea, CENTCOM sent a flash telling the captain to expect a package, and to have a strike team ready and waiting. I assume they were talking about you.”

“Don’t look at me, Chief. I was asleep a minute ago.”

The bridge was a hive of activity. Sailors were busy overseeing the Pave Low’s refueling, while the air officer worked to clear the deck. Near a door with the word scif stenciled on it, a thin, weather-beaten man in a ball cap watched the proceedings with a stained coffee cup in his hands. Steele didn’t need an introduction to know he was the captain; the man’s silent command presence was all he needed to see.

The Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, pronounced “skiff,” was the most secure place on the ship. It was where the most classified information was held.

“Not every day I get a call from Italy telling me to stop what I’m doing and prepare for a visitor,” the captain said with a warm smile. “Nice threads. Want some coffee?”

Steele knew the skipper was referring to Naval Support Activity Naples, where both the United States Naval Forces Europe, or NAVEUR, and Sixth Fleet were headquartered. The Sixth Fleet patrolled the Mediterranean Sea as well as Africa.

“Been a long night, Skipper,” Steele replied.

“I can imagine,” the captain said, gesturing for Steele to follow him into the SCIF. Inside there was a table with maps and overlays and a commander dressed identically to his master chief.

A sailor appeared with a mug of coffee and Steele didn’t even have time to take a sip before the commander was handing him a red phone.

“Code in,” a robotic voice said as soon as he pressed it to his ear. Steele rattled off his identification code and the line beeped and clicked as the crypto decoded his voice and secured the line.

“Stalker 7, this is Cutlass Main, we have a problem.”

“Yeah, I gathered that much.”

Cutlass Main was the Program’s call sign at the White House, which meant that whatever was going down had just happened and that President Cole was personally activating an Alpha.

“We have lost a level one.”

Oh shit.

A level one asset was the highest-value classification the Program had, and Steele knew that right now there were only three on the board. Two were in Europe, which was out of his area of operation. That left one.

“Breul,” Steele said.

There was silence.

“He is supposed to be in Iran, what the hell happened?” he asked, making no attempt to hide the anger in his voice. Ali Breul was his asset, but more than that, he was his friend.

“The only thing we know is that the CIA called a meeting first thing this morning.”

“Wait, what? How the hell does the CIA know about Breul?”

“We don’t have any answers, Stalker 7.”

“So what’s the play?”

“We are activating you for this mission, and you have full authority. Get him back.”

Steele hung up the phone, dropped his assault pack on the floor, and ripped open the main compartment. He took out a ruggedized GPS about the size of a paperback book and walked over to one of the computer terminals. “Is this thing hooked to the satcom?”

“Yeah.” The commander nodded.

Steele plugged it in, typed in his password, and waited for the computer to link with the satellite. A map came up and he typed a string of numbers into the search bar and hit enter.

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“You know what a data pin is?” Steele asked.

“Hell no.”

“It’s like a tracker, and we have hundreds of them in the field. Each one has an address, what we call a pin code, and when you type it in”—Steele hit the enter key with a flourish and an hourglass popped up on the screen—“the satellite finds it for you. We use the tablets in the field, but they are slow and need a clear view of the sky to lock on to a satellite.”

“So you put them in cars and stuff? Important things you want to track.”

“No . . .” He paused when a blinking dot appeared on a map identifying the pin’s location. “We put them in things we don’t want to lose,” Steele said softly, like he was speaking to himself.

That can’t be right.

The data pin in question was assigned to Ali Breul, an Iranian scientist and in Steele’s mind the most important asset the United States had in its inventory. He had checked on Breul two days ago and the scientist was where he was supposed to be—in Tehran waiting for him. There was absolutely no reason for him to be in Tunis.

Steele turned to the commander. “We are wheels up in ten. I need some clothes and a weapon.”

Inside the Osprey, Steele plugged into the commo jack and turned to the pilot, who was staring back from the cockpit.

“You have the grid?”

“Roger that, you guys ready?”

Steele nodded and took his seat next to the commander before addressing the heavily armed operators watching him from the nylon bench.

“This is going to be a down-and-dirty smash and grab,” he began. “We have a compromised asset in Tunisia. We go in hard, and if you guys do what I say when I say it, I’ll have you back on the ship in time for chow. Any questions?”

The commander had one: “What’s the ROE?”

As members of JSOC, or Joint Special Operations Command, the SEALs were used to working in the shadows, but not like him. Alphas were trusted to figure it out on the ground, and when a unit was assigned to them, it became his call.

“Weapons free,” Steele called over the net. He was in charge of the operation now and wanted everyone, especially the Cobra gunship, to know that they were going in hot.

Chapter 9

Washington, D.C.

Vice President John Rockford was a big man with wide shoulders and blond hair worn long over his ears. In his hands the baseball looked tiny. It was a beautiful morning and he didn’t want to spend it inside.

“You ready for this?” he asked, slamming the ball into the mitt so hard it sounded like a rifle shot. “Here it comes.”

He turned and was about to let the ball fly, but his catcher wasn’t paying attention.

“Emma, what are you doing?”

“A butterfly, Daddy,” his six-year-old daughter said, forgetting the glove at her feet.

“Emma, I thought you wanted to play baseball.”

“It’s a big one,” she said with a smile that melted his heart.

Rockford shook his head and looked at his wife, who was grinning at him.

“See what you did?” he accused.

“Rock, she’s a little girl,” Lisa Rockford said.

“Sir,” a female voice said behind him.

Rockford turned to see the President’s secretary. Allison was a little young to have her job, with mousy brown hair and thin glasses. But despite her age she had proven herself more than capable. Usually implacable, Rockford noticed something in her face and nervously waited for what he knew was coming next.

“The ambassador from Brazil is on the phone.”

It was a code he and President Denton Cole had come up with, to be used when their families were present. Rockford tried to keep the smile from melting away. He didn’t want to worry Lisa, and tried to play it off.

“Probably wants to talk about the price of bananas or something.”

He bent to give his wife a peck on the cheek and could tell immediately that he wasn’t fooling her. The sudden tension around her eyes reminded him that he wasn’t the only one affected by his job.

He walked across the garden and ducked into the Oval Office. Allison was waiting there with a black folder.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Director Styles has called an emergency security brief,” she said, handing him the folder. “I know it is last-minute, but I can’t get hold of the President.”

“It’s fine, Allison,” Rockford said. “I can take the meeting for him.”

She nodded. “Thank you, sir, they are waiting for you now.”

Rockford skimmed the folder on his way to the Situation Room. The workup was short, so short that he was able to stop outside the door and read through the entire packet.

Why would Styles call a presidential briefing if this is all she has? he wondered.

From the hall it was just another nondescript oak-paneled door, but inside was the most secure space in the U.S. government. Rockford took a breath and entered. He could feel the weight of the room as soon as he stepped inside.

The group seated around the walnut table represented every branch of the intelligence community and were the most powerful men in the country. He scanned the faces, wondering what each of them knew, or what part they had played in the string of events that had brought him here.

“Keep your seats,” he said with a wave. He sat down and everyone turned back to the large monitor fixed to the far wall. Rockford knew from experience that the feed was from a Reaper drone. It was a newer UAV, or unmanned aerial vehicle, and had a better camera than did the older Predators.

“Where’s the boss?” William Harris, the Director of the National Security Agency, asked.

“En route,” Rockford lied before addressing the table. “What do we have today?” There was no time for the usual banter. It was time to get down to business.

Rockford’s gaze settled on Director Styles, who observed him with the detached coolness of an ice sculpture. The Director had her blond hair pulled up in a French twist, which framed her high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. Around her neck she wore a simple string of pearls that contrasted perfectly with an ink-black dress.

Rockford had to admit that she was a striking woman, but the way she looked at him, almost like he was beneath her, was something that grated on his nerves.

Before becoming the second most powerful man in the United States, John Rockford had been a captain in the first Gulf War. During the battle of Wadi Al-Batin, he was wounded while dragging one of his soldiers from a burning Bradley Fighting Vehicle. He received the Distinguished Service Cross and a trip to Walter Reed for his trouble and was given a medical discharge. The CIA came knocking soon after, and by the end of his time at Langley, he had become the Director. So he knew all too well the pressure Robin’s job carried, which was why he went out of his way to treat her with respect.

The stress that came with being the Director of the CIA was impossible to convey to anyone who hadn’t held the title, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at Robin. She managed to appear aloof even in times of chaos.

Rockford had shared his observation with his wife, who’d said, “I think you are reading too much into this, John. She is probably intimidated.”

“Intimidated by what?”

“Rock, you guys have your little boys’ club and as the only woman she probably feels left out.”

Rockford had never thought of it before, but he took his wife’s counsel to heart. As the VP, it was his job to make sure everything ran smoothly when President Cole was away—a task he accomplished with ease, because Rockford was at heart a natural conciliator. But it seemed that no matter how hard he tried, he found he couldn’t break through the latent hostility that existed between himself and the Director of the CIA.

“So,” he began, turning his full attention to Styles, “you have the floor.”

“I was expecting President Cole,” she began, her southern accent thick and smooth as unfired molasses.

“Like I said, President Cole is out of pocket.”

Rockford wasn’t sure what else to say. Unlike the rest of the people in the room, he wasn’t a fan of the spotlight, and had told the President as much when he asked Rockford to be his running mate. “Sir, no offense, but I am just starting to enjoy the retired life,” he’d said. “I don’t think I’m the guy you are looking for.” But Cole had chosen him anyway.

More than anything, Rockford wanted to be back in the shadows. The sudden increase in high-level briefings, and the fact that he was the only person in the room who knew the real reason why the President wasn’t here, made him uncomfortable.

Two months ago, he and his wife were invited to a private dinner at the Executive Residence. It wasn’t the invite that surprised him, because the two families were close. In fact, President Cole was his daughter’s godfather, but the news he laid on him over brandy and cigars still festered in his mind.

The President of the United States was sick.

“So what do you say we start the briefing?”

“Very well, I called the briefing because of Tunisia,” Styles replied, the ice in her eyes evaporating in an instant.

It wasn’t the shift in attitude that threw Rockford off balance, it was the feeling that Director Styles had been sizing him up and had come to the conclusion that he wasn’t worth her time.

Tunisia? What is the CIA doing in Tunisia?

Rockford looked again to Harris to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind. “Director Harris, does the United States have an active mission in Tunisia that I am not aware of?”

“No sir, we don’t, but apparently the CIA does,” Harris said, looking at Styles. “Robin lost a team this morning.”

“Where in Tunisia?”

“South of Tunis,” Styles said. “It was a routine asset pickup. My team was murdered during extraction. At the moment we don’t know who the players are, but—”

Styles stopped speaking when the door to the Situation Room opened and Allison stepped in holding a sheet of paper tight to her body.

“Sir, I apologize for interrupting, but I need to speak with you, now.”

“Excuse me,” Rockford said, getting to his feet.

He moved around the table, Allison stepping out of the room as he approached. One look at her face was all it took for him to know something was wrong.

“Is the President okay?” he asked, stepping into the hall and lowering his voice.

Allison offered him the plain eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of printer paper, and as soon as Rockford read the words “Alpha Flash,” a sense of dread washed over him.

“I still can’t get him on the phone,” she said, a tremor at the corner of her eyes.

“It’s fine, I will handle it,” Rockford lied. It definitely wasn’t fine.

Rockford didn’t have a problem sitting in on meetings, but an Alpha Flash was a totally different ball game. Of all the times for Cole to be out of pocket.

An Alpha Flash was an “eyes only” statement to the President, and when they sent one to the White House it meant that in some dark corner of the world, something had gone terribly wrong.

Rockford took the paper, feeling like a second-string quarterback who had just learned he was going to be starting in the Super Bowl.



From: Alpha Ops North Africa

To: Cutlass Main


OGA convoy traveling from AO Algiers to AO Tunis was ambushed on yesterday’s date along route India. Preliminary battle damage assessment has 6 American Nationals KIA.

Priority Asset Breul, Ali, and one OGA MIA

Alpha response—URGENT.

“When did this come in?” It was the only question he could think to ask as his eyes lingered over the subject line of the paper.

“Just now,” Allison replied.

“OGA convoy traveling from Algiers to Tunis, this is . . .” Rockford trailed off, not believing the words typed on the paper. “Has this been verified?”

“Yes, sir. Twice. Cutlass Main already has Stalker 7 activated and standing by.”

Rockford’s disbelief came from the fact that “OGA,” or “Other Government Agency,” was an acronym that referred to the CIA or one of its subordinate units like SOG. Rockford was an avid poker player, known for his ability to quickly calculate the odds of a winning hand. He tried to calculate the odds of a CIA team and a Program asset being ambushed in the same country on the same day. He quickly came up with the answer.


The Vice President turned to look back into the Situation Room and found Styles observing him coolly.

He forced himself to smile and held up one finger before turning to Allison.

“Looks like this meeting is about to get cut short.”

Chapter 10


The scratching sound of the razor blades put Nathaniel West’s teeth on edge. It reminded him of the basement in Argentina. He still wasn’t sure how long he’d spent in the darkness. Two weeks? Three? Sitting there with bandages over my eyes while those fucking rats tried to chew through my boots.

He took a cigarette from his ear and stuck it between his lips. How long does it take to get some paint off a damn window? he wondered, looking at the two men scraping at the black paint.

He dragged the match across the striker on the outside of the box, and the flame blossomed, revealing fingers mottled with scar tissue. When he bent his neck, dropping the tip of the cigarette to the flame, the scars only got worse.

The abandoned building didn’t have power, and vagrants had used the bottom floor as a communal restroom. The entire bottom half of the building smelled like piss and shit. That was why they were upstairs.

West smoked idly, watching the sunlight progress across the concrete floor. By the time he put the cigarette out beneath his boot, his men were done, and what had started out so very dim was now a spotlight that revealed two men in the center of the room.

The “package” had a black bag over his head, but was otherwise unrestrained. West knew he wasn’t going anywhere the second he yanked him out of the Suburban and saw that he had pissed himself. The other man was a different story. He was a CIA contractor, and the team leader of a seven-man security detail that was supposed to transport the package from Algiers to Tunis. He was in way over his head, but just to be sure, West had him zip-tied to the chair. At first he’d planned on laying him out with the other six he had left on the edge of the highway with a hollow point through the eyeball.

Waste not, want not.

“What frequencies are you using?” the South African demanded, squinting against the beam of sunlight coming through the window while yelling at the man with the hood over his head. It acted like a spotlight, and caused the blood-splattered cricket bat he held in his hands to shimmer.

“I already told you.”

West didn’t blame the guy for talking, even though it had cost him a thousand bucks. Villars had bet him that he could get the guy talking in less than ten minutes. Once the bat came out the contractor would have told West what color panties his wife wore if it made the pain stop.

Villars hit him anyway, swinging at the man’s shins like he was trying to send one deep over the wall at Fenway.


Good form, West thought. Most guys are all arms, but he really gets his hips into it.

“This guy’s done, take a break, big man,” he said. “Give me the cards, we have shit to do.” He stripped the hood off the other man’s head. “Hey, Ali Breul, long time no see.”

The Iranian scientist blinked in the sudden light, and when his eyes adjusted a look of horror crept across his face. A stain appeared on his leg, followed by the smell of urine. West shuffled the cards in his hands, a twisted smile curling at the edge of his lips.

“Glad to see you remember me, buddy.”

“But . . . but you’re dead.”

“That’s what they tell me. Obviously the details of my demise have been greatly exaggerated,” West taunted. “Unfortunately we don’t have enough time to play catch-up, but I want to ask you something.” He stepped out of the way, making room for his men to set a crate between them. “You ever play three-card monte?” he asked, switching to Arabic.


“Seriously, never?”

The man nodded. He was sweating and afraid. “Nathaniel, why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s a cool game.”

He knew what Breul was talking about, but didn’t care. The scientist was vapor-locked, and having a hard time focusing. He kept looking toward the CIA officer tied up next to him.

“Hey.” West snapped his fingers at him. “You have to pay attention if you want to win.” He fanned the cards in his hands, picking out three that he wanted. “I learned the secret in Spain from a guy on the corner. Just another hustler. He called it Encontrar la Cabrona—find the bitch. That guy took me to the cleaners, I think he took me for a grand, but it was worth it. You know why?”

“I don’t want to do this.”

West ignored him.

“Because I learned something. It’s what you don’t see that gets you.”

“Don’t listen to him, Breul,” the contractor said.


West could tell it was a body shot without even having to look up. Punching someone in the body sounded different from hitting them in the face. West looked over his shoulder. The contractor’s mouth was stretched in a silent scream, but he wasn’t making any noise because all the air had just been knocked from his lungs.

“Like I was saying, all you have to do is find the queen. Now, usually you use a traditional deck, but that’s boring. So I had one made up. Here’s what you are looking for, the queen of hearts.” West flipped over the first card. It had a picture of a naked woman with a big heart tattoo on her chest. It had obviously been cut out of a porno mag. “You find this one and I let you go. Pretty easy.” The second one he flipped over had a picture of the contractor on it, taken from a telephoto lens. “Now, here’s where it gets real. If you pick this one, he dies,” West said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

“Don’t tell him shit, Breul.”


It was a backhand this time. A sharp pop to the face followed by a grunt of pain.

“I wouldn’t listen to him if I were you. I know the CIA said they were going to keep your family safe, but guess what?” West asked, flipping over the final card.

There was a picture of a woman in a hospital with a newborn cradled in her arms, and it got Breul’s attention. Pure terror crossed the Iranian’s face.

“Surprise, it’s a boy,” West said. His whole demeanor changed in an instant. “Sorry you had to find out this way, but I want you to know that the CIA can’t protect them. Not from me.”

“Please, don’t . . . don’t hurt them.”

“We are in this together, man. I believe in you, all you have to do is find the bitch.”

West started out slow, hopping the queen over the card to the left, bouncing the three cards back and forth five or six times. Then he stopped and looked up.

“Where is she?”

“In . . . in the middle.”

West flipped it over, revealing the queen.

“See, I told you.”

Breul blew out a long breath, a look of relief.

“Don’t get excited just yet. That one doesn’t count, because I was just showing you how it worked. Here we go, best two out of three.”

He moved faster this time, scarred hands blurring over the box, cards jumping back and forth and Breul trying to keep up. Then he stopped.

“Find the bitch.”

“I didn’t see. It was too fast.”

“You have to pick one.”

“I don’t know.”

“Villars . . .”

“Wait, the one on the right.”

West held up his hand and heard the South African stop behind him. He flipped the card over, revealing the picture he’d taken of the contractor.


He pivoted, watching as Villars produced a thick plastic bag. He shook it open and then yanked it over the contractor’s head.

“His name was Jackson, father of two, married to his high school sweetheart, Janice.”

Jackson tried to hold his breath while fighting against the zip ties. He banged his legs while trying to shake himself free. Behind him, Villars held the bag tight over his face. Finally the contractor’s brain told him that he was running out of air and his mouth snapped, sucking the plastic tight against his lips.

“What do you want?” Breul asked.

“You know what I want,” West said, hands back on the cards.

“I’ll tell you anything.”

“I know you will. You want to know why I love this game? It’s like life. You think you are paying attention,” he said, holding up his index finger like a scarred exclamation point, “but what no one tells you is that the house always wins.”

Breul was weeping now, and West knew he almost had him. Just a final push to get what he wanted. He rose to his feet. “I know what you’re thinking, old friend.” West pointed to his arm and winked. “Eric is going to find me. Problem with those data pins is that they still work on the same frequency they did when I was an Alpha.” He pulled a device the size of a calculator from his pocket and held it in front of Breul’s face. “You would think they would change something like that, but oh well. It does make me wonder what would happen if I pushed this button.” He pressed the key with his thumb. The device beeped twice and a message flashed on the screen.

“Jamming signal,” he read. “Well, that’s not good.”

He saw that Breul understood what he was talking about, and a second later the Iranian began to talk.

“I left the device in . . .” he sobbed.

“You’re almost there,” West prodded.

Breul paused. His eyes shot to the card with his wife holding the child he had never seen and then he clenched his jaw and shook his head from side to side.

“You really want to do this?” West asked.

A tear fell from the corner of Breul’s eye, sliding off his cheek when he shook his head.

“Go to hell,” he hissed.

“Fine with me.” West got to his feet. “I tried to do this the easy way,” he said, glancing around the room. He spied a rusted toolbox left by the previous inhabitants and walked over. He flipped the toolbox lid open with the toe of his boot and bent down. “Hey, looky here,” he said, grabbing a five-pound hammer and holding it aloft.

“You know what a weltanschauung is?” West asked, glancing to Villars as he walked back to Breul. “Am I saying that right?”

“No idea, boss.” The man shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter,” West said with a wave of the hammer. “It’s a personal philosophy.” He knelt in front of Breul and placed his hand lightly on the man’s thigh.

“So I’m lying on my back, face all burned to shit, and I start thinking about how I lived a good life and did all the right things, and it hits me. That stuff is all a bunch of bullshit. I realized something in that moment.” The muscles in West’s hand flexed, fingers clamping down on Breul’s thigh.

“Please,” the Iranian begged, trying to move his leg to no avail.

West continued talking, raising the hammer to shoulder level, where he let it pause.

“I realized that good guys always lose.”

West punctuated the statement by swinging the hammer down on the top of Breul’s foot, which crunched beneath the impact. The Iranian went rigid, his arms tensing against the flex cuffs holding him to the chair, a feral scream pouring out of his stretched mouth.

“We can play ‘this little piggy’ all day long, Breul,” West yelled, hammering Breul’s foot a second time, and then a third, “or you can tell me where you put my fucking nuke.”

“Algiers,” the Iranian screamed, tears running down his face.

West got to his feet. “All of that could have been avoided,” he said, smirking at Breul’s mangled foot. “But nooooo, Ali Breul had to be a tough guy. You and Steele deserve each other, you know that? Put ol’ clubfoot in the truck,” he said, pointing to one of his men.

“Let’s go start a war,” West said to Villars on his way out the door.

Chapter 11

Inside the Osprey, Eric Steele watched the dot begin to move as the pilot cut the throttle and pushed the nose down. They were coming in hot, nap-of-the-earth, which gave the lumbering twin-engine aircraft a smaller profile.

Steele was about to let the pilot know the target location when the screen went blank, followed by the words “signal failure.”

What the hell?

Breul was moving, but without the link to the pin, Steele had no idea where to tell the pilot to go. They were blind. Steele knew the manual better than the engineers who’d written it and feverishly began troubleshooting the device. He ran through the most likely problems, switching out the batteries, checking the antenna connection, and restarting the device. Still nothing.

Think, man. You have to do something.

His heart pounded in his chest. The SEALs were ready to go and he could see the coast through the cockpit. He slipped his knife out of his left pocket, flicking the blade open with his thumb. Using the tip of the knife, he pried the back plate off the unit, revealing a bird’s nest of wires.

One chance.

He ignored the doubt. There was only one solution; something was jamming the satellite signal. Assuming the pin was still online, Steele was going to circumnavigate the problem. He pried one of the wires free, envisioning the wiring diagram in his head. Yellow was satellite, and he severed it from the motherboard and carefully stripped the sheath, exposing the wire’s core.

“Commo cord,” he said, looking at the SEAL with the radio on his back. The man nodded and rummaged in a pouch on his gear. A second later he had a two-foot section of coax cable, what radiomen called a pigtail.

Steele cut the end of the pigtail, exposing the wire inside. He deftly twisted the two exposed wires together, then connected the other end to the radio attached to his plate carrier. The radio beeped when he unlocked the face and dialed the frequency to 1003 MHz, which was the frequency assigned to Ali Breul’s data pin.

Steele closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to whoever was listening, then got to his feet. He paused at the door, thumbing the GPS’s menu button until a digital c